


the heat equation

by tevinterimperium



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 11:45:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4827950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tevinterimperium/pseuds/tevinterimperium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elliot doesn't know what he expects. Not this. Never this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the heat equation

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Español available: [The Heat Equation (Traducción)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10424157) by [tevinterimperium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tevinterimperium/pseuds/tevinterimperium), [Tyrelliot (SlashShips)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlashShips/pseuds/Tyrelliot)



> there is probably illegal amounts of alliteration in this. i'm so sorry

“Elliot,” Tyrell is saying. He talks like he’s in charge, because he is in charge, he’s used to being in charge. Elliot can tell. It’s the way he stands, the way he lifts his chin, the way he purses his lips and tilts his head. Not _too_ much power, though, because sometimes Tyrell’s glances look fleeting, desperate, like a trapped mouse, eyes wide and hungry. He likes to pretend he’s in power, at least, that’s what Elliot thinks, the way he angles his neck is deliberate and thought out, the way he puffs his chest is calculated, maybe Tyrell Wellick is a mouse pretending he’s a eagle, Elliot doesn’t know. He doesn’t understand people, he understands machines, zeroes and ones and zeroes and ones and zeroes. Maybe he understands fish, too. A few other things, like how much morphine to take without overdosing and how to steal a dog without making it look like you’re stealing a dog can be included on that list, but no one really cares about those. Only the numbers and the code, hacking, fingers flying across a keyboard. That’s what matters. That’s who he is, really. Tyrell Wellick isn’t written in zeroes and ones and that makes him much more complicated.

“Elliot,” Tyrell is saying after Elliot has told him about fsociety. Tyrell takes it differently than how he expects, but Elliot supposes it’s hard to expect certain reactions out of people. Especially Tyrell. Elliot doesn’t know why he was there, slipping through the door of Elliot’s apartment, or why he’s here, next to Elliot on the boardwalk and half-looming over him. Why is Tyrell anywhere, why is anyone anywhere, why is anyone anything. Elliot thinks about it for a second and realizes that he doesn’t care, really. Not at all. Human existence thrives on feigning interest in others’ lives to only realize how boring they are. Just as boring as your own life. Life is boring and that’s simply how it is, and Elliot knows that. He wonders if he sounds too cynical.

They’re standing outside the arcade. Elliot had just brought him there. Was it a good idea? Was it a bad idea? Will he regret it? Maybe. Probably. Endless probabilities of the outcome, what will Tyrell do, Tyrell isn’t easy to figure out, his actions aren’t straightforward. The thing that makes people confusing is how they have opinions, emotions, jumbling up the equation, heat and attraction and lust, as if it wasn’t hard enough. The heat equation only goes one way, at an answer, things melt but cannot come together again, the ice cream cannot return from its state of soup, the glass window cannot be remade after the baseball is thrown through it, one way, one way. God, Elliot’s head is spinning. People make his head spin. Heat makes his head spin. All of it.

They’re standing outside the arcade. Elliot doesn’t know if he regrets his decision just yet, but he’s here, maybe they were destined to work together all along. That’s what Tyrell said. It’s dark and sort of warm, heavy humidity with the sky some sort of vague blue-grey, it feels like there should be cicadas nearby, the silence of the night makes a sort of ringing in Elliot’s ears. Something sits at the back of his throat. Tyrell is two inches taller than him and his head is turned to the side, like a dog cocking his head. Tyrell isn’t a dog, though. He’s far too arrogant to be a dog.

They’re standing outside the arcade and Tyrell is saying “Elliot,” and Elliot hasn’t responded just yet. Elliot is wearing a sweatshirt and the hood is pulled over his head, but not too much, so Tyrell can still see his eyes. Tyrell is wearing a suit, inky black against ivory white, and he’s looking into Elliot’s eyes like he wants an answer. His eyes are a sort of green blue, Tyrell’s, they’re wide and round and it makes him look weak. His weakness is in his eyes, Elliot thinks, they express the hurt and fear and anger that his pursed lips and tilted head try to hide. Ironic. Elliot’s do the opposite. Shayla once told him they always made him look like he’s tired. But he _is_ always tired and Shayla is dead so it doesn’t matter now.

“I’m glad that you told me about this,” Tyrell continues, because he didn’t notice the way Elliot’s face went blank for half a minute there, didn’t notice the mindless staring. Or maybe he did and chose to ignore it, because Tyrell seems like the kind of businessman who would do that. Ignore and continue. Get the point across. Focus on the purpose. He puts his right hand on Elliot’s left shoulder, and his thumb comes close to the part where the strings of the hoodie start. Too close.

Elliot stops looking at the off bit of coloration just to the side of Tyrell’s nose and looks at Tyrell’s hand. Elliot has a thing about touching. Tyrell doesn’t. Tyrell stands too close until Elliot feels like he can hear the thrumming of his blood and Tyrell tilts his head down with his lips slightly apart until Elliot feels like he can’t breathe and Tyrell stands close enough like he could consume Elliot and Elliot feels like he wants to be consumed. 

“We can help each other, Elliot,” Tyrell says, his voice is loud enough to draw Elliot’s attention away from the place where Tyrell’s thumb is starting to stroke his shoulder, but that doesn’t mean Elliot isn’t aware. Tyrell is interesting and distracting and dizzying, he’s pursed lips and puffed chest but he’s also wide eyes and worried frown, he shows too much for a man who wants to be emotionless and he’s not cut out to be a businessman. Elliot thinks back to hacking him, Facebook photos and an abandoned MySpace profile, a long-forgotten eHarmony and tucked away Google searches. That’s easier to understand than the way Tyrell is _looking_ at him, he looks soft, his face is all gentle curves, as if it were the lines paintbrush. Or something. Elliot was never good at the poetics.

They’re standing in the place where Elliot first saw Darlene, first in this “cycle”, whatever it is, before he remembers. Leaned against the wall, casual, content, assuming her brother was aware of her continued existence. Surprising, isn’t it? Did she never realize that Elliot thought she was a stranger for those stretching months? The startled statements as she showers in his apartment? The stupid surveys of her face as though she was a puzzle to be solved? Tyrell is closer to the wall, Elliot on the outside, as though Tyrell is allowing him the opportunity to escape, if he wishes. He doesn’t. 

Tyrell is saying, “I’m sure you won’t regret it,” and he’s almost smiling. He leans closer, slightly, ducks his head a few centimeters, it’s purposeful, it’s pointed, he _wants_ Elliot to notice the way he’s moving in. Is it intimidation or interest? Heat is the part of the equation that skews the solution, imperative and impossible, Elliot breathes lightly through his mouth but his chest rises and falls too quickly. Equations. Numbers. Zeroes and ones. Is it a zero or a one? A yes or a no? Mr. Robot’s words (his words, it’s always been his words, the part of him he shoves down, pressuring, persistent, is Mr. Robot the image of his father or is it the image of himself?) echo loudly, looming in his head, symbols are supposed to be safe, humans are hubris, arrogance in abundance, faking and feigning the unfound interest, Elliot is dizzy. It’s dizzying. Tyrell is dizzying.

Elliot’s mouth goes open, half in awe and half in anticipation, like there are words he intends to say but his throat has closed up in such a situation. He looks at Tyrell, soft eyes and smooth shapes as the structure of his face, dotted discolor at the uneven spots, stubble starting along his chin, the same color as his combed hair. Elliot feels his scrutiny scampering all over, fleeing, but Tyrell is persistent, he doesn’t drop his gaze. 

Elliot’s lips are chapped. He feels it when he feels Tyrell’s lips press against his own, slowly, Tyrell is calculated in this action, he is in control. Elliot’s lips are chapped because he doesn’t care to use the lip balm Shayla gave him, slipped into his pocket as she leaves his apartment, smooth, seductive? No, that’s not right. Sympathetic. Elliot’s lips are chapped and Tyrell’s aren’t because Tyrell prides himself in how he looks and how he stands, Elliot imagines him applying chapstick before the large, gaping mirror just prior to coming here, all for the image, all for the image. Elliot’s lips are chapped but Tyrell doesn’t seem to care. 

Elliot closes his eyes, but he’s not sure if it’s out of instinct or out of enjoyment. Tyrell’s hand inches upward, his thumb rubbing circles along the paths he’s making, first over where the strings on his hoodie start and then up his neck until he’s cupping his face, Elliot’s jaw in Tyrell’s palm. Hovering but holding, tender but tenacious, still grasping onto the power. He has it. He doesn’t need to feign control, but he does anyway. His other hand goes down to Elliot’s waist, softer, barely touching. Feather-light. Tempting.

Tyrell pulls away, after a moment. Elliot opens his eyes slowly, like he’s afraid to face the music, but Tyrell is _smiling_ at him. He looks Elliot up and down, partly awed and partly impressed, like the fact that Elliot is physically able to kiss him is astounding. Elliot hasn’t kissed anyone since Shayla, though.

(He kissed Darlene, out on the boardwalk, adrenaline and exhilaration, her wide smile and bubbling laughter, it’s not _his_ fault, he _forgot,_ he always _forgets,_ how do you forget a person? A sister? Someone like Darlene? It’s fine, now, he remembers, memories flooding back like a dam breaking, stumbling back into his apartment, holding old grainy photos between his index finger and thumb, it’s real, she’s real, they’re real. She looks at him with pity. He tries to ignore the kiss, embarrassment and shame and foolishness making his chest tighten, constrict, he can’t breathe if he thinks about it for too long. She tells him it’s fine. He knows it isn’t.)

“Well, well, well, Elliot,” Tyrell says, he almost sounds like a cartoon character. His hand is still on Elliot’s jaw, Elliot feels like he’s burning up right on his cheek. He wonders if Tyrell can tell. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Elliot says, “Had what in me?” and he feels like he hasn’t spoken in years. Maybe he hasn’t. He can’t always tell when he’s talking and when he isn’t, and his voice is almost trembling, like he’s nervous. He’s not nervous about Tyrell, though. Maybe it’s the fanciful façade or maybe it’s the pointed position or maybe it’s the way Tyrell is looking at him right now, but Elliot’s not nervous. Tyrell could devour Elliot if he tried, he’s killed a woman, he felt _wonder,_ but Elliot’s not nervous. He thinks maybe he should be.

Tyrell laughs, lets out a somewhat forced chuckle, before he says, “The gall. The confidence. The nerve,” and pauses. He presses his lips together, his lips that are slightly damp from kissing Elliot just now, his lips that aren’t chapped and are smooth and soft. He says, “You always manage to surprise me, Elliot.”

Elliot looks at him. “It’s just one of my traits, I guess.”

Tyrell raises his eyebrow, taunting, like it’s a game and he’s surprised at Elliot’s move, like Elliot has just put out a pawn for Tyrell’s taking, startled, amused. The palm pressed against Elliot’s jaw, presence practically burning the skin there, drops, gently. He laughs again but it sounds more real this time, less like he’s laughing as a part of their game — whatever it is, this back and forth, Tyrell slipping into his apartment and Elliot showing him the arcade, a diversion, seeing who can crack first? Elliot’s not sure, Tyrell probably is — their game is broken for a moment as Tyrell earnestly laughs. The right side of his mouth rises up higher than the left and the corners of his eyes crinkle, subtly, almost unnoticeable. _Almost._ Elliot notices because he’s Elliot.

“Do you think this is a bad idea, Elliot?” Tyrell asks, head turned to the side again, a questioning dog or a preying eagle? Elliot doesn’t know, motives make his head spin, as does anything that doesn’t fall into the binary, the basics, the zeroes and ones bold against the black and blue backgrounds. Is it a rhetoric or is he riveted? Is Tyrell toying with him or is he tempted? Why does Tyrell always cause this catastrophic collapse in Elliot’s head? 

“Yes.”

Tyrell smiles again, or maybe it’s more a baring of teeth, half of his face is the stone-cold mask and the other half is a contrived Cheshire grin. He straightens himself, chin tilted, shoulders broadened, the image of influence, the perfect portrayal of prestige, inky black against ivory white, always the chief comparison, the contrast. Somber sky and shining stars. Black background and white words. It makes more sense when seen in shades alone. Zeroes and ones across the shadowy scene, HTML etched into the surroundings. Makes sense. Makes sense.

Elliot kisses him, full on the mouth, palms against pinstripes, seizing the suit too tight. He closes his eyes, forced, robotic, he knows the proper routine of kissing a person but doing so feels flawed, lips against lips, almost automated. He feels clunky, like it’s wrong, like he’s not supposed to be doing this, breaking the balance of it all just for the reaction. Or the bliss? Why _is_ Elliot kissing him? Purely to plunge the power imbalance between himself and Tyrell into perplexed disarray? Possibly. Always possible.

Feeling Tyrell’s surprise is the best feeling imaginable, though, flinching back beneath Elliot’s hands, startled, the mouse behind the eagle briefly caught up in all that is Elliot kissing him. He moves backwards in instinct, eyes wide, before his brain finally catches up, fight or flight fading, dissolving. Lips that aren’t chapped. _Pleased._ Hands on hips, thumbs dancing along the belt loops of Elliot’s jeans, god, it’s _nice,_ being kissed? Strange.

(He and Shayla always kissed like it was the last kiss they’d ever get, desperate, clumsy, morphine or Molly making it all sort of spin and tilt, hands in hair, fingers hovering near the hem, tumbling into a mess of a mattress, nails leaving marks across exposed skin. He and Shayla always fucked like it was the last thing they’d ever do, lazy but longing, both ignoring the beckoning reminder that this is a bad, bad idea, cigarettes after sex, Shayla falling asleep next to him. Lost but not forgotten.)

Elliot pulls back first, bouncing back to the balls of his feet, did he even realize he was on his tiptoes? Tyrell is tall. Two inches taller, of course, when he straightens his back to return to the pristine person he thinks he is, it feels more like three. Elliot slouches and digs his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, hidden. _Do you think this is a bad idea?_ Of course it is, it always is, every liaison and every interaction and every semblance of socialization: bad idea, bad idea. Does Tyrell realize what he’s _doing?_ He certainly does, he has to, right? Right. 

Tyrell says, “Well.” He says “Well.” like it’s a full sentence, like the abrupt halt is somehow acceptable, like the stark word standing on its own holds more meaning than a complete phrase, why does he keep on saying _Well_? Elliot is irritated. Tyrell says “Well.” like he’s in control, like he’s in power, like he’s dangling the carrot above Elliot’s head and Elliot is desperately reaching for it, scrabbling for it with all his might. It’s irritating.

Tyrell says, “Well.” and then he says “Elliot,” tugging back on Elliot's attention, drawing in, and then he says, “I think this is going to be an _excellent_ partnership,” and then he turns on his heel, quick and careful, and walks away down the boardwalk. Steps specific. Perfectly pinpointed. Tyrell Wellick is made up of arrogance, it is the thing that keeps him standing, the only reason he is still here, he thrives on the raised jaw, the tilted chin. It's at his essence.

(Elliot follows him, despite himself.)

(He knows it's a bad idea. He does it anyway.)


End file.
